On His Own
by IBuriedTheLede
Summary: Lizzie Bennet Diaries-verse. Darcy and Gigi go to see "Les Misérables" over Christmas, and Darcy finds himself unexpectedly (and admittedly, rather pathetically) empathizing with Èponine.


Darcy gave his handkerchief to Gigi, who was still sniffling a bit as they exited his car and headed toward their front door. He pulled her into his side as they walked, and she gave a small laugh.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm being silly," she said, dabbing at her nose. "It gets me every time."

"You would think you'd be used to it by now," he said lightly, belying some of the heaviness that was attempting to settle in his heart. "We've certainly seen it often enough."

"But it's all so tragic!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "So much unnecessary death. And the harmony at the end as they're leading him to heaven and 'to love another person is to see the face of God' — it just…" Gigi trailed off. "It's just so sad. And so wonderful."

"I'm glad it came out at Christmas," Darcy said, pulling her tighter. "There's no one I'd rather see this with than you."

Gigi gave him a smile as she made to unlock the front door. She pushed it open, revealing light from the large Christmas tree sparkling in the foyer. Darcy was glad Mrs. Reynolds had left the lights on; he enjoyed the soft glow emanating all around the tree. It was the one thing to greet them in the otherwise empty home.

This thought seemed to have struck Gigi too, because she looked up at the tree and sighed contentedly.

"I think Mom would have really loved it."

Darcy stilled, taking a deep breath. "Me, too," he murmured, not trusting himself to say more. Gigi had always been more open with her feelings, more able to express herself in a way that people could easily read and understand.

If only that particular family trait had passed on to him as well. But there was no use wishing for things he knew he couldn't change. Instead, he turned to Gigi and gave the biggest smile he could muster.

"Care for a nightcap?" he asked, knowing he could probably rustle up some cocoa somewhere in the kitchen if she wanted any. Sometimes the large house would get chilly and drafty; he didn't want her to catch cold

"No, but thanks. I'm pretty tired. I think I'll just head up to bed."

Darcy nodded, and they walked up the stairs together. At the top, she turned and wrapped her arms around him warmly, then kissed his cheek. " 'Night, brother dear. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Gigi."

They parted; he to the left, she to the right. Though he didn't like admitting it to himself, Darcy was glad Gigi had decided to go to bed. He had something on his mind that he needed to think over and at least attempt to shake out, and she was one of the few people who could recognize when something was bothering him. She would want him to talk about it, and he couldn't indulge that request. Not just yet.

Darcy walked into his room and shut the door, slowly and methodically loosening his tie as lyrics from the musical echoed in his mind. "_He was never mine to lose/ Why regret what could not be?/ These are words he'll never say/ Not to me, not to me, not for me./ He will never feel this way._"

How had he never heard that song properly before? All the many times he had seen this show, had he never truly listened? Why else would the words of the poor, lovesick Èponine be resonating with him so resoundingly, when in the past he had brushed them aside as sappy, melodramatic drivel?

Seeing Les Misérables always conjured complicated emotions. It had been their mother's favorite show: she had taken the entire family to the Royal Albert Hall in London to see the 10th anniversary concert all those years ago, even though at the time Gigi was still in a stroller. Then two years ago, with the pain of their parents' death still sharp, grief always hovering nearby, and the now fully-grown Gigi desperately needing an escape from California, the 25th anniversary concert provided just as good an excuse as any to abscond halfway across the world and return to London.

There had been front-row orchestra tickets for national tours and a trip to New York to see the revival several years ago. But Darcy had never been so wholly struck by some of the lyrics as he was with tonight's film.

_"Without me, his world will go on turning." _

Frankly he had always found Èponine rather pathetic. Walking about in the middle of the night talking to herself and pretending to enjoy the company of a man who isn't even there and who doesn't care for her. But that was before Lizzie, and before his broken heart. He suddenly found himself feeling much more sympathetic toward Èponine. She was, after all, trapped in a cage of her own making, unable to escape, all on her own. Just as he was now.

Good God, _he_ was the pathetic one. Darcy threw himself on his bed in a rather undignified way, staring at the ceiling.

Being alone had never bothered him so severely before, and the extent to which it bothered him now bothered him even more. He and Gigi were their own little family, and it was good the way — he liked it that way. There had never been a need for any additional presence beyond their current friends and extended family. There had been an additional presence, once, and look how well_ that _had turned out. No — it was better to be on their own.

But it had never felt like he was missing something. Never before had he actually _felt_ alone. It had always been a conscious choice. Gigi needed him, and his responsibilities at work had so often felt like more than he could handle, that there simply wasn't room for another relationship in his life.

He would have made room for Lizzie.

He had, in fact, already attempted to make accomodations for her, in his mind at least. He had spent much of his time at Collins & Collins contemplating future plans for their inevitable relationship, expecting her to be in his life and making provisions accordingly. Which restaurants they would dine in, which concerts and plays they would see, which museums he would take her to and the lively debates they'd engage in afterwards about the merits of postmodernist art. He had supposed that holiday parties were inescapable — at the very least, his presence would be required at the annual festive get-together at Pemberley — but he had anticipated that her presence there by his side would make the neverending parade of inauthentic wishes of good tidings of great cheer just a touch more tolerable. How beautiful she would look in red, or green, or any other color, really. How he would have Mrs. Reynolds make up a guest bedroom for her, just to maintain all appearances of propriety. Which hotel he would book a room in when he went to visit her for Thanksgiving or Christmas, assuming she was still at home, and knowing that her mother was unlikely to have a guest room available.

When he thought back on it, neglecting to mention any of these future plans to Lizzie was really a blessing in disguise. If she had so hated even the mention of his saying that he loved her, he could only imagine her vexation at his presumption to plan all of his future social and professional engagements for two instead of one.

Of course, it had never actually occurred to him that she would turn him down. He was not accustomed to being rejected in anything, let alone by a woman, least of all by a woman so completely outside his social sphere. He dearly wished he wouldn't feel the loss so keenly.

Clichés about the accuracy of hindsight were of absolutely no comfort. Sometimes he felt so obtuse he couldn't stand himself. He was used to feeling out of his depth at work, though that feeling wasn't as harsh anymore now that he had a few years leading the company under his belt. Now he was out a bit from his father's long shadow, and his precise and meticulous nature and business sense had yielded several consecutive quarters of growth. That went a long ways to put a damper on any water cooler whispers about his being handed the company upon his parents' death. He was gaining ground there. But he had never felt at such a loss in his personal life. Falling in love felt like just that — falling. He disliked the sensation of being out of control. But he couldn't help secretly thrilling in the exquisiteness of it all. By the time he had his finger on the dial to make a reservation for two at Mélisse, he knew it could not be helped, and he resolved to talk to Lizzie the next day.

Rejection was more unsettling than he liked to realize.

Darcy absently pulled the knot out of his bow tie — his _red _bow tie — and sighed. He wished he had the capacity for mental discipline that would allow him to stop thinking of her altogether. But he knew that was impossible: Attempting _not _to think about something just brings that forbidden subject to mind that much more often. His thoughts strayed to her several times each day. Though he _knew _that he should push thought of her aside, he was consistently betrayed by his traitorous heart that didn't really want to ignore her at all. The constant push and pull was mentally exhausting.

Much of his struggle stemmed from the fact that he had selected her specifically to fill that role, and had grown so used to imagining in her in it that he could not quite reconcile himself to the fact that she would not ever fill that post. Darcy wished he didn't think of it in business terms, but it was what came most naturally to him. The post he had hoped Lizzie would accept had long been unfilled, and for very good reason. Casual dalliances created too much opportunity for ridicule and torment from outside observers; too much chance for a tabloid headline or embarrassing photo to make its way into the public sphere. His very nature forbade it, at any rate — he was rarely casual in anything, even in his choice of clothing. In college there had been one very well-selected partner, who came from the right family and had the right major and said all the right things at social functions. The perfunctory nature of the relationship was admittedly a little unfeeling, but it didn't bother Darcy because he knew he served the exact same purpose for her that she had served for him — they each were useful accomplices, a solid excuse to not engage in the foolhardy recklessness of other students. When graduation came, they parted amicably, she off on her way to an investment firm in New York City and he off to California.

That was the summer his parents died.

Any thought of a romantic relationship, which in his past experience had served little purpose other than sexual gratification and an easy way into and out of those unfortunately necessary social occasions that littered life, went completely dormant. He threw himself into his new roles — guardian of Gigi and executive at Pemberley. There was no room for anything or anybody else. Involving too many outsiders was a recipe for disaster, not just for himself, but for his sister as well. He had failed Gigi once and he was determined above all else to protect her. That must be the ultimate goal.

And so his pursuit of that goal continued for four long years, during which Gigi grew from teenager to college student, he grew from terrified upstart to — dare he say it? — respected executive, and grief, though always lurking around the corner somewhere, was not as frequent a visitor. During that time, he had so single-mindedly pursued his goals of protecting Gigi and leading the company that he had given little thought to trifling matters such as how he came across to strangers. It simply wasn't worth the effort. Outside of his work, he had never particularly cared about what other people thought of him, or of how he was perceived — at least not until it had been thrown back in his face with such mortifying accuracy with all of Lizzie's videos.

The irony was never quite lost on Darcy that he was the head of a communications company and so often utterly failed at the most basic level of socializing. That he should try to flirt by talking about stereoscopic sound was pathetic; that he should equivocate wanting to dance by saying a song was "good for dancing" was laughable; that he should actually say _out loud_ that his heart had overwhelmed his judgment while in the middle of professing his heartfelt love for Lizzie was downright insulting.

Lizzie, who had crashed into his life like a speeding train and had left him at a complete loss. Lizzie, who came from the exactly wrong type of family and said exactly what she thought, instead of the socially appropriate thing. That, honestly, had been what drew him to her at first, because it wasn't in his nature either to say what people wanted to hear just because it made them more comfortable. He had thought she enjoyed their conversations. He certainly did. For the first time in years, his heart had stirred with something other than all-consuming sorrow or an almost paternal care for Gigi. It had come along gradually, in fits and starts, until he was suddenly in complete agreement with his Aunt Catherine that his presence was very much necessary at Collins & Collins, and that he would be on the next flight out to San Francisco.

He wanted her so badly, it had blinded him to everything else, including and especially his already weak read on social interactions. But he hadn't realized just how unfavorable her discernment of him was until he watched Lizzie and those closest to her don that brown hat and red bow tie and, again and again, do devastating impressions of his social awkwardness. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared two whits. But it was Lizzie. Yet again, he wondered why her good opinion was so dear to him, and why it grated on him so very much that he did not have it. Even George — of _all _people, that_ slime_ — had had it, once.

_But not anymore._

He quashed the thought and instead focused on standing and walking to his dresser to find a pair of pajamas. It wouldn't do to think like that. It would just give him hope where he could scarcely afford it. His excitement and anticipation for the relationship had been dashed to pieces, and it would just not do to build it up again.

_She said she no longer associates with him._

Darcy shook his head, picking an old Harvard t-shirt out of the drawer and throwing it down on the bed before walking into the adjoining bathroom and grabbing his toothbrush. Could his letter really have had that much of an influence? Could he be any more of a masochist, watching her videos as she diligently posted them twice a week, just to see her, hear her voice? Could he be any more contrite as she and Charlotte Lu battled Caroline and he realized how base and insulting Caroline's — and, by extension, his own — arguments against Jane Bennet sounded? Could he be any more lost than when Lizzie called him a "special someone" and given him a small smile and a wave? That is, if she had even meant him.

_You know she did._

She had never smiled at him before.

He squeezed the toothpaste out with more force than was strictly necessary, then looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. Loss of control. That's what she did to him. Even a momentary disruption in his precisely ordered universe was disquieting. It opened up the possibility of spiraling further down into immeasurable grief, which he _could not let happen_, for either him or Gigi. It was so much easier to have his wall built up, to keep everything perfectly systemized, than it was to venture out into the unknown. Yet he could not help seeking her out again and again, pursuing not just her but the feeling he had when he was near her. The love and care he felt for her warred with his natural inclination toward constraint and self-composure. She instigated a complete loss of control, of his mind, of his heart, of the actions he hadn't calculated and precisely measured beforehand.

_Is that really such a bad thing?_

Arrogance, pride and selfishness, she had said. Arrogant, perhaps. He knew his serious and reticent nature often came across as undue pomposity. Pride, well. He had things in his life to be proud of, had built his life to be something worthy of esteem and dignity. Pride, in his opinion, would always be under good regulation. But selfishness? That stung most of all. Every deed was guided by protective instincts, every action motivated by a fierce desire to keep those closest to him safe and free from any harm. He had his own wall built up to protect himself from any of those outside disturbances; his care was all for those closest to him. That was the furthest he could possibly come from selfishness. He was still confused about how to combat that barb.

_The last man in the world she could ever fall in love with._

He winced. Must he keep remembering? Must he keep replaying it over and over in his mind — and on his computer, in a vastly embarrassing and masochistic impulse that he couldn't help but indulge? He had tried many times over to see where exactly he had gone wrong and where, if anywhere, there had been a place to stop and fix it, or at least attempt to salvage the conversation. He had settled on "this really isn't a good time," which of course preceded the acknowledgement that she was not all right and that "this is the worst possible time" and once again his cheeks burned in humiliation and shame. She had been upset, of course, that was utterly obvious, not only by her words but also in the tone of her voice and expression. But he, ever the single-minded individual, had had one goal on his mind and had been determined to accomplish it.

Darcy shoved the toothbrush in his mouth, determined to disregard the feeling, the loose ends of the untied red bow tie still hanging from his neck. What better excuse than Christmas to wear it? It had gotten a lot of wear, in fact, this whole month of December. He tried to convince himself it was because he was feeling festive and in the spirit of the holidays. He could never quite make himself believe it.

He quickly finished, mostly because he had the strong impulse to remove the tie and get into his pajamas. The tie was a connection to her, even if she didn't know it, but the t-shirt was a link back to college days where his world hadn't constantly felt as though it was one step away from spiraling completely out of his control.

Removing the tie with care, Darcy undressed quickly and pulled the t-shirt over his head, climbing into bed. The last strains of Èponine's lament still echoed in his head as he settled down into the sheets.

He wondered if this feeling would ever go away. Ignoring it did little good, but it was the only defense he had at the moment. Indulging in it was impossible; hoping for it was even more intolerable. Escaping into his mother's favorite story, and consequently his and Gigi's favorite as well, had only yielded his empathy for a poor French girl with a dirty hat and an even dirtier chemise who sang her song of unrequited love. It wasn't lost love, because it had never been hers to lose. And that, perhaps, was the most painful feeling of all.

It wasn't lost on Darcy that the melody of Èponine's lament played again in the too-tragic finale.

The melody continued echoing its wandering walk through the streets of Paris, and he wished for some other tune to come in and drown it out. This one was too painful, too much of a reminder that he shouldn't be lamenting what hadn't been his to lose in the first place. But he couldn't stop it. At least not on his own.

**This fandom has inspired me to write fanfic for the first time in about seven years, when I was not-so-patiently waiting for the latest ****_Harry Potter_**** book to come out. Feedback would be very much appreciated.**

**Also, for those who don't recognize the lyrics — they come from "In My Life/A Heart Full of Love" and "On My Own" from Les Misérables. They can be heard here: watch?v=zM1sVapgUCs and here: watch?v=sAugBdMMdM0 . I also lovingly borrowed a few lines from LBD-verse and the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries — can anyone guess which ones?**


End file.
